70 (New Year's)
In spring, sorrow looks through my socket skull
and starlings titter in my deaf ear holes,
and the marsh is most swampy in the bone,
and I feel the sky in a far-off star,
and I taste the black bottom of my jaw.
In summer, I am falling, and digging,
where the ground is soft and the green grass grows,
too grave, from the septic tank to the springhouse.
In autumn, I ride shotgun in the car,
and when I arrive in winter, I saw
through the white sawhorses, burn your sweet home,
and hunt you down while you search for the road.
This year, this year, I resolve to be hell.
orifinally published in Electric Literature (read by avatar)
print published by Otter Magazine